WardLocked
by AlaskaForever
Summary: This is a one-shot that came to me after watching the Season 2 finale. It is based on John's reaction to Sherlock's death as inspired by the finale. I do not want to give too much away. Summaries are hard! Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.


**Here is my one-shot. I hope you guys enjoy it :D**

John hesitated as he reached the door of the flat: 221B. The dismal skies above threatened that a heavy storm was on the menu. Raising his hand slowly John knocked the door, half expecting Sherlock's voice to boom out that it was already open. He had never been that concerned with the security of the flat. Mrs Hudson swung open the door and gave John, not exactly a warm smile but one of sympathy.

"Oh John. I didn't expect to see you here so soon. I thought it was too hard for you to come back to the flat now that Sherlock." Mrs Hudson stopped mid-sentence as she choked on a sob. One of her petite hands flew to her mouth as her body was racked by her harsh cries. John watched her with sorrowful eyes and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"We need to be strong Mrs Hudson. For Sherlock's sake. He wouldn't have wanted to see us crying, now would he?" John whispered softly as he gently pulled Mrs Hudson closer to him and gave her a hug to prove she was not alone and he too felt an empty void as Sherlock was. He could not even contemplate that word; dead.

"You're right John. Oh if Sherlock was here he would probably be comparing us to one of those blasted soaps. You know the ones you get on those tellies." Mrs Hudson chirped as cheerily as she could. Hiccupping slightly from the amount of crying she had just done in such a short space of time. As she begun to shuffle into the living room, John followed and allowed a small smile to stay on his lips. Mrs Hudson was always such a delight to be around. Her motherly instincts and dithery nature meant there was never a dull moment to be had.

John could not help but feel a twinge of guilt that he and Sherlock had often taken Mrs Hudson for granted. In fact John had even belittled her once when she was fussing over their welfare, when they were on a particularly dangerous case. She had been on the verge of tears and yet even though John had offered her no apology. She had greeted them back with cups of tea and a platter full of every biscuit you could possibly imagine that existed under London's sun. Mrs Hudson was like a lighthouse guiding ships back into port, no matter how terrible the storm. John sighed as he observed her standing in the middle of the room. She was wringing her hands nervously and her eyes were not focused on anything in particular. They seemed vacant. Indicating her mind was far away and most likely her thoughts were circulating around the dearly departed Sherlock.

John walked into the room and released a deep sigh. As he noticed the infamous hat resting on the table, he felt tears start to brim. Perhaps that was the worst part about Sherlock's death? That everyone believed him to be a fraud. Well. John understood that he himself was not a genius, but he knew without a doubt that his best friend had been anything but a fraud. His intelligence had been his weapon, armour and everything in between. Intelligence was Sherlock. Without him it seemed the world was a more mundane orb and all of the people in it were just mere blobs of carbon. Life had lost a certain spark for John. Sadly not even Mrs Hudson's charm could replace it.

Picking up the hat he passed it to Mrs Hudson, who began fondly stroking and cradling it as if it were a cat. Placing a hand on her shoulder John said,

"May I have a moment alone?" Mrs Hudson looked at John and she beamed at him, her eyes becoming watery once more. Clutching the hat to her heart, that Sherlock had despised with his very being, although secretly John knew he had grown to have a sentimental soft spot for it, Mrs Hudson left the room.

"I will pop the kettle on in my room John. Feel free to come when you are ready dear. I know it is still so early considering Sherlock has only been gone for. We need to talk about the rooms." Mrs Hudson called up the narrow hallway as she entered her own cosy flat, where smells of fresh baking had often permeated from. Her voice wavering.

Tentatively, John began to stroke the bullet mark that was singed into the sophisticated wallpaper after it had fallen victim to one of Sherlock's eccentric and quite frequent outbursts. Whenever boredom had entered, in Sherlock's case, whenever there were no new mysteries to be solved. He had often found irrational ways of entertaining himself. John found he could even give a half-hearted chuckle at the memory.

Closing his eyes John allowed the series of events; from when he had first met Sherlock, to flood back to him. Being inside the flat only seemed to intensify them. They seemed so vivid and real. John swore he could reach out and touch them. Or at the very least step into them and relive them. Sherlock wasn't dead. He couldn't possibly be dead.

Opening his eyes, John's locked with Sherlock's icy blue ones. His chin and shoulder were held high as he rested the violin across it and he began to play a classic tune. The rich music surrounded the flat inviting tranquillity and serenity. John felt his body sway from side to side. Sherlock never paused. He simply kept playing and occasionally a smile would swim over his lips before concentration would set in again. Relaxing John sat down onto his armchair and rested his arms across his chest. Suddenly, Sherlock played the wrong note and it screeched violently, as if scolding him severely for the error he had made. Punishing him for abruptly halting the sweet score he had produced.

"Damn it. Never mind. I have plenty of time to practice now. Do I not John?" Sherlock questioned as he smiled, putting away the violin. Walking over the fancy glass cylinder that contained the whiskey, which he hardly ever touched, Sherlock poured himself a generous glass.

"I don't understand Sherlock? You can't be dead. You're here. Right in front of my eyes. Now. I can see you Sherlock!" John started, his voice turning cold as Sherlock did not lift his eyes to meet him. Instead he continued to pour the earthy coloured liquid into another glass and smirked.

"Come on John. We both know your intelligence surpasses this level. Your mind is playing tricks on you. I am not here. We are not even in the flat. Or even on Baker Street for that matter." Sherlock said flatly. His tone, however was soft as if he was attempting to soothe his only friend, who stared bewilderedly around the room.

"If we are not in the flat then where the bloody hell are we? Mrs Hudson!" John began to call out agitatedly and Sherlock shook his head slowly as he settled into his plush armchair and crossed over his leg.

"Calling will not help you John. Mrs Hudson is not even here. Well she was about an hour ago. During the appropriate visiting hours that is." Sherlock explained calmly as he is rested his chin onto his clasped hands and leaned forward to register John's response.

"Visiting hours? What the hell are you on about Sherlock? Where are we?" John began to shout incredulously. His stomach was a ball of knots and beads of perspiration were beginning to form on his forehead.

"John you must take a deep breath and calm down. It is time to take your medicine." Sherlock said quietly as he walked towards John with a glass of liquid. This one did not contain whiskey in its place was a thick, green substance. However, John began to resist as Sherlock placed a firm, steady hand under his chin. As he pressed the glass to John's lips, John retaliated by head-butting him in the chest. Sherlock fell to the ground and groaned as the bare carpets began to peel away revealing white tiled, gleaming floors.

"I don't know what the hell is going or what is happening, but you are not Sherlock! Stay away from me. What is happening?" John began to panic as inch by inch the flat began to evaporate into thin air and it was being replaced by the interior of somewhere that John did not recognise. Sherlock began to stand up and held both hands up to show John that he meant him no harm.

"Your right John. I am not Sherlock. He died. You are hallucinating John. I am your Doctor. Doctor Turner. We are going to give you something John. To help you sleep. You have been suffering from insomnia." John lifted a palm to his head as the room became full of bright lights making him feel dizzy and sick. How he yearned to be in the shadows of the flat: 221B nestled on Baker Street.

Suddenly, something sharp was jabbed into his arm and John began to thrash about. He let out an ear-piercing roar as he felt strong arms restraining him. All he could make out were blurry shapes until all that was present was darkness. As his head hit and sunk into the soft pillow John's last thoughts were _'Wait till Sherlock gets here. He will sort these idiots out'_. Alas for John, Sherlock would not be there when he awoke. Only a bedraggled Mrs Hudson, who was incredibly concerned about John's well-being and a team of nurses, Doctor Turner and a psychiatrist, who were desperately trying to help John cope with the loss of his dearest friend. They all knew they were fighting a losing battle. But not a single one of them were willing to give up on John. All they could do was pray that one day John would accept the fact that Sherlock was never coming back.

**Thank you for reading . Please feel free to review: any positive or negative criticisms are accepted.**


End file.
